Mark M Bulmer

I Was There

He was lord of the manor for fifty years.

Five decades. A lifetime.

Through those years, I was there.

I made no promises. I swore no vows or oaths. I did not take a knee.

I was there.

When the body of a prostitute needed to be disposed of. When he wept in grief at the horrors he had brought to the world. When he held her hand and cried and begged her forgiveness.

I was there.

When another body 'happened', I was there.

When the basement needed remodeling, I was there.

When he was behind the door. When he plied his tools. When he made pain and took lives. I was there.

Through the cries and the screams, squeegeeing blood into the special drain, burning pieces then hammering the remains to ash then sprinkling the ash in the trees.

I was always there.

Normally, when one in service approaches a retirement age, offers are made, nods are given, promises are whispered.

He did not offer. We did not nod. We did not whisper.

There was no need.

Though I spoke not a word on the subject, he left almost everything to me. It was substantial.

They delivered his ashes an hour ago.

Myocardial infarction. A heart attack. The seizing of a muscle.

He was showering when it happened. I waited in the dressing room beyond the closed door.

I heard him fall. I heard him yell. I heard him cry for help.

I waited until I believed I'd waited a long time. Then I waited another long time.

He was on the floor, curled up around the pain.

The water fell upon him, rinsing away the blood, the lives, the sin.

I squatted down to watch him die. It took far longer than I believed it would.

Now, only one question remains: Do I piss into the urn then dump the sludge into the toilet, or do I dump the ashes into the toilet then piss on them?

Both appeal.